


The Client

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cover identities, M/M, undercover sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, Michael Emerson was in a comedy sketch called 'The Slogan'. [ http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/404b3bcc41/the-slogan ]. mr-finch requested that his persona there be a cover identity for Finch. This fic happened as a result.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, Michael Emerson was in a comedy sketch called 'The Slogan'. [ http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/404b3bcc41/the-slogan ]. mr-finch requested that his persona there be a cover identity for Finch. This fic happened as a result.

"So what am I tonight, the muscle?"

Simmons gives him this look that’s a laugh without Simmons wasting the energy on the real thing. The _Fusco, you idiot_ look. Simmons pushes a dry cleaner’s bag at him.

"You don’t threaten this guy. Just stick close to the captain, mind your fucking Ps and your fucking Qs, keep your mouth shut unless the client talks to you and if he does, you say yes."

Fusco crumples the garment bag under his fingers, something uncomfortable down in his gut. “I’m supposed to wear this?”

Simmons smacks him upside the head. “You reach that conclusion all on your own? Go change, cocksucker. Captain’s waiting.”

It’s a suit. Fusco doesn’t see a whole lot of difference between his and the one he’s supposed to wear, but fuck if he’s going to argue. He puts it on. No tie included, so he dons his own again before stepping back into the other room

This gets an irritated grunt from the captain, who’s there now with Simmons; captain looks at Simmons and Simmons looks at him and grits his teeth.

"Take that _off._ Get no fucking bright ideas tonight, Fusco. What the hell is so hard to understand about doing what you’re told?”

"Jesus Christ," Fusco bitches back, because you have to do a little of it. "Don’t fucking coronary on me, I’m taking it off, asshole."

Captain’s checking his watch. “Let’s go,” he says, and they go.

The restaurant is nice but not. It’s expensive but that isn’t the same thing as respectable, Fusco knows that much. They get led through a door, and another door, to what is clearly a private dining room.

Fusco shoots glances from under his brows at the other men already there. Jesus. Two city councilmen, not that he knows them by sight or anything but sometimes he reads the papers on stakeouts.

Captain shakes hands around, doesn’t introduce him until he gets to the third guy, who’s in a white suit, old-fashioned, like something out of the sixties when guys wore hats heading out. The sixties, or the south. This much Fusco can see from his peripheral.

"Mr. Martin, this is Lionel Fusco," Captain says, so Fusco takes that as his cue to look up and Christ he nearly fucking gets himself killed, he’s pretty sure, because he stares despite himself.

It’s the gimp, the brains, Suit’s smarter geekier half. Looking at him coolly from behind these round tortoiseshell frames with the distance of someone who’s two martinis into his evening.

Finch acts first; extends a sloppily graceful hand across the table to him without standing. “Lio _nel,_ is it, hello Lionel.”

The captain’s elbow in his ribs is not gentle. Fusco clears his throat and takes the hand. “Uh, nice to meet you, sir. Mr. Martin.”

Finch’s hand is limp in his, the smile that flickers across his pale face purely insincere. It’s weird, but it gets weirder: Finch/Martin/whatever gives him this once-over, head to toe, which is, uh. What’s the word? One of those words nobody ever says in real life. Vocabulary words. Blatant. Some shit like that. Blatant.

Like he’s the 3.99-a-pound, seven p.m. special in the deli, is how Fusco would say it to himself.

He feels himself tensing all around, waiting for the others to notice and think this is sorta weird, but he sees the captain’s lip curl a little in what experience has taught him to recognize is satisfaction and then it clicks, why he’s here, what his role is, aw shit, does the universe never get tired of bending him over? Apparently not.

"Why don’t you sit next to me, Lionel," says Martin with a slow, alcohol-tinged blink from behind those glasses and one of the councilmen smirks this oily smirk of contempt and smugness, Christ.

"Yes sir," Fusco answers, and carefully takes the spot in the big big booth next to Martin/Finch. The captain gives him a tiny, short nod which is as close as he’s going to get this evening to a _thank you_ or even an acknowledgment that he did what they wanted. The captain sits on the other side of the table. All the other men at the table give Martin that tiny bit of space, happy to let Lionel Fusco be the one in contact.

Fusco sits there and sweats. He can way too easily imagine how he’d be feeling if this wasn’t Finch next to him— if this was really what it seems on the surface. But that’s like, level one of the weirdness. It _is_ Finch (or Finch has, like, a perfect twin somewhere), and the fuck is he doing here with HR? What the fuck is he getting into, how reckless do he and Suit _get?_

He wishes he felt remotely safe that it’s Finch here and not some skeevy fuck who’s being bribed with some rough trade, but he doesn’t. Finch smells of gin, strongly, and slouches into the red leather of the booth all boneless and plastered. God, if Finch gets himself killed tonight, Suit is probably going to hold him responsible and gut him with a knife or something, which is really unfair.

What the hell is he supposed to do? Bodyguard a drunken Finch? Play along with HR’s plans? Nobody ever tells him the right goddamn path. If they did maybe he wouldn’t fuck up so much.

He tries to keep up with the conversation. It’s something to do with a kickback, that much he can decipher despite the language it’s couched in— you don’t run with HR for ten years and not learn to detect the euphemisms— and it’s something to do with an election and buying it.

Martin/Finch holds his own, even if he is drunk. The others do more of the talking but he speaks up every so often, cuts in with a few lazy words that draws the attention of the others. It’s not Finch’s voice. He knows Finch’s now, after so many instances of that voice in his ear: that level monotone of calm that delivers his directions with a dry _Detective Fusco_ and doesn’t drift from that polite impersonality. Sure as hell never swears.

Martin’s different. Martin’s words are rounded and burred with the martinis, soft mostly and then sharpening out of the blue to say “Gentlemen, let’s just remember who the _fuck_ is financing this enterrrprise—”

And Martin asks him if he wants anything to drink, Lio _nel._ Sure. Sure. He needs something, Jesus.

"Whiskey on the rocks for my friend," Martin tells the waiter, and takes it when it’s delivered before Fusco can get a hand on the glass, gives it a proprietary little stir and a look to make sure it’s _good enough,_ then sets it down in front of Fusco like a man sets a bowl of water down before his dog.

He’s very conscious of the smirks from the other men at the table, so much so that he almost misses it, the napkin wrapped around the glass that wasn’t there before Finch took it in hand, that says against the side of the glass where only he can see it: _Play along._

Finch isn’t looking at him. His eyes behind the round glasses are watching the others. Fusco palms off the napkin and stuffs it into his pocket to prevent any sort of lapse, and takes a deep swallow of the whiskey.

After that shit gets worse, and that crumpled napkin in his pocket is the only talisman he has to remind himself it’s not real. Because Martin starts getting touchy.

It’s for _their_ benefit, he realizes— tells himself a little desperately— as Finch’s pale fingers drift over the tops of his own thick, square hands, toy with the edge of his suit jacket cuffs. It’s for the assholes, for the captain and the city creatures, sure. It makes him swallow and shoot little glances at the ceiling.

Once he catches captain staring at him, a smile still on his face for whatever the joke one of the assholes just cracked, but there’s no humor in his eyes at all. Those cold little eyes are boring into his and saying clearly _You fuck this up, Fusco, I’ll see you skinned. Just bend over and run with it._

Dinner is a minor eternity. The steak’s probably the best he’s ever had and he barely tastes it. Finch is sitting right _against_ him, leg to leg, the two of them cozy at their end of the table and the others comfortably spread out.

They finally— finally— seem to be winding up. There’s been a lot of numbers talked at the table. Fusco’s glad he’s not paying too much attention to them because if he was some of the sums might have made him spit-take into his drink.

"Mmmn, give me a hand, Lio _nel,”_ says Martin, nudging him to exit the booth and let him out. Fusco moves, but Martin meant it: standing there waiting for Lionel to help him to his feet. Christ. The others are watching as he takes Martin’s hand and helps him upright.

He really wishes he knew how drunk Finch is, because _damn_ ,he sags convincingly.

"Uh, easy sir," he says, steadying the man in the white suit, who giggles. Martin collects a cane Fusco failed to notice before now, mahogany-and-gold, and, yeah, a hat. A little snazzy white fedora.

"Excuse me, gennelmen, I’ve got to visit the little boy’s room. I’m just going to hold _on_ to you, can I Lio _nel_? Is that okay?”

Captain stares him down, hand tight on his glass.

"Yessir, that’s fine."

Martin/Finch leans on him all the way to the hall, until line of sight is broken, and then Finch becomes Finch again, weight on the cane, but hand still on Fusco’s arm.

"Sorry about this, Detective," he murmurs, and damned if he isn’t dead sober. Thank Christ. "I wasn’t anticipating they’d send _you.”_

"What the fuck are you _doing?_ ”Fusco answers in a hoarse whisper, swallowing thickly. “You got any idea who these guys _are—_ they’ll eat you alive.”

Finch smiles. It’s a smile that reminds Fusco there was a time he was scared of the little geek.

"I know full well who they are, Detective," he answers softly. "Your concern’s, ah, touching. But even men like this don’t bite the hand that feed them. Not as long as the food keeps coming."

Fusco’s not so sure, but doesn’t know if he can argue this. Finch comes to a stop in the hall, releasing his arm at last, with a little pat that feels weirdly proprietary.

"It’s all in hand, Detective. Just carry on. You’re doing fine."

Fusco takes a deep breath. “Long as you know what you’re doing.”

Finch doesn’t answer. He has his phone out and is pecking away, high-speed, probably to Suit, Fusco guesses. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know. He shifts his weight foot-to-foot, keeping an eye on the hallway.

"It’s all in hand," he murmurs again after thirty seconds, and slides the phone back away into a pocket. He studies Fusco a moment, brows arched above the round glasses, then smiles a smile that isn’t Finch, that isn’t Martin’s unpleasant smile either but doesn’t belong to any of the faces Fusco’s seen on Finch.

"They did pick a good suit for you, though."

Fusco colors despite himself, and wonders how much more of the dinner they’re gonna have to keep this up through.


	2. The Client's Request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (where chapter 1 could have gone if I'd been arsed to flesh it out)

    “Who were you expecting?” Fusco asks because the question just occurred to him. Above him there’s the tiniest flicker of hesitation from Finch, so small that if he wasn’t looking for it he’d have missed it.  
    “Sorry?” Finch asks, one hand settling in Fusco’s curly hair.  
    “You said you weren’t anticipating they’d send _me_ ,” Fusco breathes, moving his hands again on Finch’s belt. “Who then? Were you gonna fuck him?”  
    “That’s not really relevant, is it?” Finch murmurs, nails curling around behind his ear. Fusco rocks back onto his heels, stops what he’s doing.  
    “I think it is. Cuz if they were trying to make you happy, give you a treat, they’d have done with someone they thought you’d _like_. Wouldn’t that be some sorta pretty-boy twink? I mean wouldn’t that be the generic thing they’d offer?”  
    Finch is silent above him, staring down through the round glasses, unreadable.  
    “Unless you told them something to give them an idea. Did you? What did you tell ‘em you like?  
    “What the hell do you tell ‘em to make them send somebody like _me_?”  
    The tip of Finch’s tongue appears, moistens his lips. Those fingers move again, slow, through Fusco’s hair.  
    “Mr. Martin’s tastes don’t run towards the dainty or twiggy,” he says after several seconds. “He has a stated preference for men, not boys.”  
    Fusco keeps his palms down by his thighs. It’s the only power he’s got right now. “Yeah? What else?”  
    There’s a little flutter of a pulse in Finch’s throat. His fingers keep carding through Fusco’s hair. “I may have made a comment on curly hair.”  
    Fusco takes a breath, fills his chest, lets it out again. “You had to know they _might_ send me.”  
    Finch’s face is a million miles away. He opens his mouth to deny it, starts to shake his head; Fusco grits his teeth.  
    “Don’t even. Smart as you fucking are, you _had_ to know.”  
    Finch doesn’t say anything for what feels like a really long time but is probably like ten seconds tops. Then he just gives a tiny, tiny nod. “…it was a slim possibility,” he murmurs.  
    “Jesus,” Fusco mutters. “Jesus. Yeah. Okay.” He takes another breath, then lifts his hands to Finch’s belt again, the white trousers. Seersucker. That’s what you call it.  
    “You don’t mind?” Finch asks, as if he were only curious but Fusco can feel the minute tremor of those fingers in his hair.  
    “Eh.” He gets the buckle undone, starts on the buttons. “Christ. I guess not. First time anyone’s fucking asked for me.”


End file.
